


Au Nom des Larmes

by paint_me_a_revolution



Category: 1789 - バスティーユの恋人たち | 1789: Les Amants de la Bastille - Toho, 1789: Les Amants de la Bastille - Various Composers/Attia & Chouquet
Genre: Angst, artistic license with 18th century funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-16
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-08-24 15:33:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16642934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paint_me_a_revolution/pseuds/paint_me_a_revolution
Summary: The wounds may heal, but memories are forever...





	Au Nom des Larmes

      Camille pulls Maxime off of Ronan’s body, blinded by his own tears. “Let her mourn,” he begs, gesturing helplessly to Olympe. She hasn’t moved, except to slowly rock as she cradles the corpse of her lover in her arms. Maxime thrashes, pulls, struggles. Camille feels a burst of pain as one of Maxime’s elbows finds his ribs, but it hurts more when Maxime stops fighting. “Come,” Camille urges. He tugs Maxime again, and feels him move without resistance. “Come, let’s go.”

      That night, Maxime cries until he can’t anymore, until all he can do is lie in bed and shake. Camille holds him, careful not to let him see as tears stream down his cheeks and into Maxime’s hair. They fall asleep in a tangle of limbs, both of them too exhausted to protest, and when Camille wakes up Maxime has already wiped all traces of the night from his face. He nods and says nothing as Camille enters his study. Camille lets the silence go.

      At Ronan’s funeral, Maxime stands like a statue at Camille’s side. Everyone approaches the casket in turn, even Camille, but Maxime stays back. His face is ashen and his hands so tight around the back of the pew in front of him that his knuckles are white. Camille turns away to look into the casket. He’s not sure why they chose to have it open, not when Ronan’s body is drained of its blood and his skin looks as fragile as butterfly wings. They’ve folded his hands over his stomach, and someone, presumably Olympe, has threaded a white rose through his fingers, but nothing can stop the pallor of death once it’s taken hold. Camille reels away from the casket as quickly as he’d approached, and silently re-joins Maxime in their pew.

      That night, Maxime cries himself sick, screaming and thrashing as Camille struggles to hold him down. “I didn’t get to say goodbye!” he wails once, as he weakly beats against Camille’s chest with his fists. Camille bites back a retort that it’s his own fault, that he should have come up to the casket. It's a terrible thing, to see the body of a loved one, and try as he might, Camille will never erase that image from his mind. Instead of shouting, Camille takes Maxime in his arms and rocks him like a child until he falls asleep.

      They don’t speak of those painful nights again, and yet Camille will never forget.


End file.
